


If There Was Nowhere to Land

by vargrimar



Series: The Chambers and the Valves [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Canon Compliant, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 03, Sherlock's Mind Palace, anyway sherlock's pretty high and hallucinating so we're having a good time, oh neat so that is a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22916335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar
Summary: A warm swell of affection smoulders in the hollow of Sherlock’s chest as he averts his gaze to the billowing, misty dark. He doesn’t even know how to begin.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Chambers and the Valves [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640680
Kudos: 32





	If There Was Nowhere to Land

**Author's Note:**

> ( it’s only when I hit the ground  
> it causes all the grief )

It wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks. Staying here.

That was the idea back on the tarmac. By the time the sleek black car carrying John and Mary pulled up, the cocaine cocktail had already begun to work its way through his body; preparation for the long flight ahead. He’d thought if he could just… sink down after his goodbyes, if he could be good and oblivion-bound before the last job he’d ever do, it might make the process a little easier.

Because he was never going to see John again. That was the truth of it. This work was meant to be suicide. And he’d accepted it, as it would have been a far shorter and far kinder sentence than wasting away in a prison cell; the best death a murderer like him could have hoped for. He’d planned to post Mycroft a thank-you note once The Work tilted toward the truly lethal.

A part of him had wanted to remember John with complete clarity, but he knows now that he couldn’t have endured it. If he had still managed to swallow down the words (no, he can’t think them, not even now) whilst high on substances that smother the endless noise into silence, how could he have expected to do it sober?

What would it have been then? he wonders. A noncommittal ‘take care’? A brief cuff on the shoulder? Would he have even shaken John’s hand?

Of course, that is a pointless train of thought now. No use in trying to imagine it. He is already here, already under, already oblivion-deep, water from the Reichenbach Falls drenching his hair and pouring down his clothes as a man who should be dead kneels before him, hands linked behind his head (linked where the hole should be, where the bullet broke through). Even if he has already worked through the possibilities (spectre, accomplice, network, mastermind), would it really be so bad to just stay a while longer?

It’s a simpler world, yes, but no less interesting. It’s a world where science is evolving, where there are important discoveries yet to be made. It’s a world where murders and crimes are a gentle undercurrent, where the puzzles and quandaries he so craves come to him with ease. It’s a world where Charles Augustus Magnussen doesn’t exist, and not because Sherlock has put a bullet through his brain. It’s a world replete with familiar faces who regard him with the same wonder and awe, a world where he has garnered significant fame. A world that grants him succour.

And he could be happy here, he thinks, if he cared to stay. Murders, mysteries, games, good company. A lurking villain behind the scenes. Continual tests of his brilliance. What more could he ask for? His Boswell is already here.

The John Watson in this place is different, but he shares the essentials. He is curious. Meticulous. Brave. Pertinacious. Gives copious praise. He is loyal and steadfast and no less radiant. The John here has a wife, too, but he spends little time with her. All he requires is a single word from Sherlock before he is on his way to Baker Street with pistol in hand, which is what matters most. Even the moustache looks better on him here. It’s far more appealing kempt and curled than the bland, bushy thing that had once taken residence under the other’s nose. Probably has something to do with the tweed and top hats, but Sherlock doesn’t dwell.

It’s… comforting, really, to know this John exists. To know that even in a London set apart by a century—with candles, telegrams, gas lamps, horse-drawn carriages—John Watson still exists. Albeit in the depths of a mind palace, of course, but he does exist. He follows Sherlock. Bullies him into taking meals. Reprimands him about his drug use. Worries over his health. Accompanies him on every case.

And saves him, just like always.

Just like always.

It could be good.

“So, what’s he like?” Water from the falls soaks through John’s bowler hat and long overcoat. Stern curiosity limns his face as he aims his pistol at Moriarty’s back, but his eyes—oh, his eyes are mischief. “The other me, in the other place.”

A warm swell of affection smoulders in the hollow of Sherlock’s chest as he averts his gaze to the billowing, misty dark. He doesn’t even know how to begin. How does one describe John Hamish Watson? There are countless descriptors.

There are simple ones, of course, like ‘doctor’ and ‘soldier’ and ‘blogger’ and ‘friend’. There are those that are more complex, like ‘resourceful’ and ‘practical’ and ‘courageous’. And then there are others with far more meaning, like ‘conductor of light’. His John, the Other John, is all of these things and more; the John of present day is handsome, reliable, principled, honourable, fierce, dedicated, constant—all the admirable qualities anyone could ever hope for in a best friend.

But he swallows a novel’s worth of adjectives, and says, “Smarter than he looks.”

“Pretty damn smart, then,” says John, countenance bright and pleased.

A smile overcomes Sherlock. “Pretty damn smart,” he agrees.

And really, that’s all the convincement he requires. He knows he needs to wake up. Even as he watches John shove Professor Moriarty off the face of Reichenbach Falls, the roar of the water drumming in the film of his ears, he knows he can’t stay here. Even if this world were somehow more than a well-crafted floor of his mind palace, he knows he can’t stay.

Because not only does the John Watson here believe in him, the John Watson out there believes in him, too. The John Watson here is by his side ( _there’s always two of us_ ), but so is the John Watson in the waking world. And although the John Watson here might need him, the John Watson out there needs him more.

Sherlock steps up onto the slick rock and lets his gaze linger on the endless black horizon. There should be a telltale prickle drilling into his feet, his palms, but there is no autonomic nervous system response. Not here.

He straightens his back, squares his shoulders, breathes. There is nothing left to fear.

“Are you sure?” asks John.

Yes. Yes, he’s sure. He must be. He’s needed, isn’t he? Needed by John. Needed by Mary. Needed by all of England, according to Mycroft. That should be sufficient incentive, should it not? Being needed is enough to make people do the strangest of things. He would be one to know.

Sherlock tosses his hat into the watery abyss and takes his leap.

After all, he would do anything for John.


End file.
